


We Are What We Are

by M0oranshi



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0oranshi/pseuds/M0oranshi
Summary: Breaking Oswald Cobblepot out of Arkham isn't as easy as Edward Nygma wished it would be. Both by technical and emotional standards.





	1. Hello, old friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Post 4x11

_**Edward Nygma** _

  
_"Stop thinking you're making a mistake."_  
Edward Nygma was startled by Penguin's voice. His brain sure knew how to get his attention at all the wrong moments. He shivered the sudden cold from his bones and breathed.  
_Not now._  
Tense fingers flew up to adjust his glasses and he tried to focus back on the plans splayed out before him on concrete floor. He tried, but letters started to swim in his eyes, vowels were echoing inside his skull.  
Splashes of dimming sunset were falling through the grimy warehouse windows, touching his hastely written game plan, reminding him time was running out.  
_Not now._  
He tapped the edges of his paper schemes back in place.  
_"You know you're not making-"_ Penguin started.  
The words were reading him now rather than he was reading them, and as he felt a sore growl rising from the depths of his core, Edward decided to lean back on the ground.  
"Shut up."  
His previously and carefully maintained transfixion was splintered.  
Wonderful.  
"Not now," he mumbled his own thoughts out loud. He closed his eyes, removed his glasses and rubbed his temples, "Not now."  
He could recognise the onset of absolute dread seeping through his whole being and it wasn't fair. Edward Nygma was worth more than this. Edward Nygma was one -- he was one and only with himself. He was a rare breed of brilliance the world wasn't ready for. The Riddler would be a household name, people would whisper it. He would make sure that-  
_"Don't worry. You can't see me. I swear. You can open your eyes."_  
"Shut up."  
The penguin sighed.  
Ed's thumbs tightened their grip on his pulsating forehead.  
It wasn't fair that whenever he was dedicated, his mind spun him for a loop. It wasn't fair he was hearing this voice. _This voice_ , and why, and why, and it wasn't fair he was indulging, but why and how he did and it wasn't, and he could not, and should not yet whenever it still kept-  
_"Ed, breathe."_  
"You're saying I can open my eyes," Edward scoffed sadly, his hand dropping defeated besides him, "You say so. I can't trust you. Not even myself right now, your fiction even less."  
_"You have to trust me."_  
"I don't trust you."  
A pityful chuckle, _"But you do, Ed. You know this._ I _know this."_  
  
\----------------

  
_**Oswald Cobblepot**_

  
"Cobblepot. Somebody wanted you to have this."  
Dirty as the prison walls surrounding him, a wrinkled enveloppe was pushed through bars and Oswald watched it twirl poignantly towards his feet.  
What was he supposed to do with this, eat it? If he could, he would, because who the hell could-  
Green.  
Green.  
Oswald scrambled closer. His breath catched in his chest.  
Yes, yes. _Green._ A question mark elegantly drawn on a piece of wrinkled enveloppe.  
Green.  
Yes.  
This was Edward.  
Wait...  
Oswald stared his eyes blank on the trembling paper in his hands.  
Edward?  
"Your breath sounds a little shaky, little Penguin friend," a rusty voice echoed from the cell beside him, "Fish got stuck in your throath?"  
"No, Jerome," Oswald glanced absently at the bars seperating them, "We just recieved either extremely good or bad news."  
  
\---------------  
  
_**Edward Nygma**_  
  
Edward opened his eyes. Dusk was well gone and he saw... nothing.  
Empty containers were lined up in the ghostly, shadowy distances. Dust was being swallowed in the few orange beams of streetlights breaking through gaps and cracks.  
Nothing but a forgotten warehouse. Discarted plans he still had no in or out to, staring back at him dissapointingly from the floor. Wake up, wake up...  rubbing his eyes, he fixed his glasses.  
He got distracted. How much time had passed?  
Out of habit, he shaked the emerald sleeve from his wrist. His heart sunk.  
His watch was gone.  
_"Sorry if I tired you."_  
Oh no...  
His eyes darted around frantically to see dark corners. He glanced behind metal support beams, a glimpse over his shoulder. No sign of a small, exceptionally dressed man who spend way too much time on stupid, beautiful short raven hair.  
"I-..." Edward started to answer Penguin, but cleared his throath when he realised how shaky he sounded, "I told you to leave me alone," on hands and knees, he scavenged around the floor to collect papers.  
_"You have time,"_ Penguin said. A small chuckle graced the voice in his head and Edward's skin crawled.  
Time.  
_Time._  
"Wh-... Where is my watch?" he faltered.  
_"You don't need it."_  
"Of course I do!"  
_"Ed-"_  
"Don't call me that!"  
Damnit! This wasn't happening. His fingers curled too tightly around his make shift schemes and his skull was collapsing in on itself. His spine turned to stone. Penguin took over and-  
_"Breathe."_  
As he tried to get his ragged breath steady, Edward felt a pulling sensation, as if something inside of him was tied by a long cord to a distant object that was moving away. The more he concentrated on calming his rising and falling chest, the more the object gave, loosening the tightness in his heart.  
_"There,"_ Penguin whispered as Ed took one last, deep sigh, straighted his tie and combed a hand through unkempt hair, _"See?"_  
"Could you tell me what you did with my watch?" Edward asked in his most monotone voice. It wasn't as much a question as it was a demand.  
_"Don't worry, it isn't gone. I wouldn't throw away your watch, we aren't monsters,"_ Edward could almost see the arrogance dripping off of Penguin in his imagination, _"You'll find it along the way."_  
"Along the way?"  
_"Your plan is the definition of perfect, Ed-"_  
"Don't call m-"  
_"If you don't wager some sleep right now, your plan might sink and drown. We don't want that to happen."_  
Edward dropped his head. No. No we don't.  
_"Tomorrow is a big day,"_ Penguin continued, _"We're setting me free. And to be honest, I didn't want your expedient little endeavour to crumble under your neuroticism. You were wasting time. So I took over for a moment. And sure, now I hid your watch so you wouldn't keep staring at it, because you don't need it anymore."_  
That wasn't quite the illogical explanation Edward had anticipated. Then again, he wasn't illogical, he never was, ever, so of course it made sense.  
He laid a hand over his chest. The cord, the pull... it was from something in the near future. Something coming that was even now altering his state of mind, but he couldn't tell yet what it would be, but... it didn't feel dangerous.  
"Huh," he just whispered in confused wonder.  
_"Lee will come wake you up. We know she'll be on time, she can't afford not to be. So **sleep** , Ed."_  
Edward's exhaustion boiled to a breaking point and his eyes rolled back as he slumped on his side on the cold, concrete floor.


	2. Tick Tock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens, but one feeling is constant no matter how much you deny it.

**Oswald** _ **Cobblepot**_  
  
"Come on in, our beloved Southern Hemisphere friend, come on in!"  
The common room in Arkham was not well lit, or rather it was perfectly lit when the lights were working, but the lights were not working.  
Oswald stared absently at the death throttles the fluorescent lamp above him made, watching the ghostly red shadows flickering and dancing around the room.  
Jerome cleared his throath dramatically, "I said," he emphasized slowly, "Come on in, PENGUIN."  
Oh.  
Oswald snapped sober and he rose from behind stacks of tables pushed together in an improvised podium.  
Frenzied laughter and applause reached his ears as he stepped from chair to table, and per usual, Jerome was standing opposite of him in the midst of his crazed following.  
They were all looking up at him.  
Inmates in dirty black and white stripes, every single one of them a character. Mad hairdoes, mad postures, some had teeth, some had not, and some furnished just a few. Eyes yelling insanity, some eyes were blank and burned.  
Oswald was a character too... he knew. Thanks to his new ginger friend, he had learned to accept this fact, and he wasn't at all bitter about it.  
We are what we are, after all.  
Waiting for the commotion to eb down, Oswald tried to supress the urge to give up.  
He wasn't feeling the theatrics today, the power play of fooling these idiots, even make them laugh.  
This ironic comedy had reached unimaginable lengths of time and it had lost it's charm.  
He had been able to view previous performances with cool detachment, it had always been done right and proper. It had been done correctly to maintain his sanity.  
Yet... Yet it resolved nothing. All that mattered was yet to be done.  
"Jerome," he called out regardless, "I am NOT going to make you laugh. I am king of Gotham."  
A wave of maniacal laughter and cheers flooded the common room, only amplified by the fact Jerome's followers watched the leader himself bend over in pure delight.  
Tabletops were being assaulted by the rhytmic pounding of fists, and the ratteling of chain-linked fencing made Oswald's head spin.  
"Oh," Jerome nearly sobbed, gathering himself after his practiced fit of laughter, "But you are a penguin."  
"I am _THE_ Penguin."  
More laughter, more of the same, same, same... Dear Lord, why was this getting on his nerves?  
Unrestrained madness, unrestrained power over brainless subordinates... this used to be fun. Being a puppet master was part of his skill set, after all.  
"Dance, little bird, dance!" someone echoed Jerome's previously used line from the back of the wild crowd.  
Vermin. That was the word. That's what they were.  
Oswald remembered.  
"FIGHT!" another beamed, but together with the rest of the hysteria, he was quickly shut down when Jerome threw the inmate daggers with his eyes.  
It was quite amazing how Jerome could keep a crowd like this in check. Oswald himself had to deal with people who usually had... Well.  
You know. At least a hint of intelligence. To his own annoyance Oswald had to admit he had alot to learn from this kid with the impossible smile.  
Oswald watched his feet balancing on wobbly tables.  
He sighed.  
Here it comes.  
"Jerome," he broke the tense and sudden silence, "I have a gift for you."  
"Oh?"  
It was clear the crowd catched onto the fact that the script had been changed.  
Change in a place like this, even the tiniest crook or twist could set off frenzied hurricanes. It started with agitated mumbles, closely followed by angry slaps on tabletops.  
A scream in the back.  
"Shhh," Jerome hissed and motioned for the crowd to be silent.  
And of course, silence followed.  
Oswald sifled a chuckle. He instead cleared his throath, "Jerome," he said, "With your help, if you'd please, I have blueprints for all of us to leave."  
Absolute silence in the common room. Oswald clenched his fists, "ALL OF US," he stressed.  
No movement.  
What was with this reaction?  
"You do?!" Jerome's beaming voice was drenched with plastic love.  
Oswald looked back at him in utter confusion, "Yes, I d-"  
"Oh my little Penguin, my friend,"  
Jerome removed himself from the crowd to climb on top of the make-shift podium. Limping back, Oswald was too slow to prevent the sudden, wooden hug attacking him.  
"Please, don't," he muttered before Jerome released him.  
"Gather 'round boys!" the clown prince exclaimed as he turned back to his cult, "We are going home!"  
During the onslaught of cheering and laughter, yelling and screaming, Oswald strained himself to listen.  
He strained to get excited enough to find what he was missing, but he just couldn't find it in himself to smile.  
This was up to Jerome, and he wouldn't have left this job in the hands of anybody else.  
Finding a secluded place behind the podium, he sat down. Fishing in his pocket, his fingers closed around a piece of paper.  
A green question mark stared back at him.  
The hysterical, unrestrained whirlwind of noises coming from his fellow inmates dimmed in volume as he unfolded the letter and read:  
  
_Oswald,_

  
_I was listening to a melody the other day._  
  
_The music was like a flightless bird that didn't know what capacity it had lost._  
_It walked very well, but it walked where it should soar._  
_Time and time again, it forgot to dream how it would be like to fly._  
_In the end... it never even looked up._  
  
Oswald pinched his temples. He looked up at the fluorescent lamp above him, the lamp pushing itself to stay alive as it rattled and flickered randomly.  
Word by word, he knew this letter.  
Word by word. What was wrong... with relishing in the fact Edward had such elegant handwriting, that he used -of course- the best ink and pen in the city.  
Stupid.  
He concentrated once more on reading.  
  
_Anyway._  
_I don't have much time. I won't tell you this, but I'm glad you will take care of my watch. Because I know you will. So I'm thanking you in advance in case I don't later._  
_Give it back soon, though. Seriously. For your sake and mine._  
_Blueprints are in here too, I managed to re-schedule the guards shifts so some halls are open and clean for a few minutes. You might need the watch, just to make it easier. I'm just kidding. I'm screwing myself on this one. Just give it back to me. You know the shifts. Time them with the notes I wrote. You can't be alone, that's obvious._  
_Oh, and Oswald, you wouldn't believe how easy it is to blackmail an Arkham administrator to smuggle in 'presents' like this. Actually have them delivered too. For a second I weeped about our corrupt justice system. I have to tell you, sometime._  
_But another time._  
_If I meet you, don't be alarmed when I try to kill you. Because I know I will. Especially after I learn what I did myself. But I also know I won't. I know it's hard to follow, but..._  
_But we are who we are._  
_Just..._  
_trust me._  
_We will be okay._  
_And Oswald... I miss you. I won't say it, but I do._  


This was Edward. Oswald knew. Oswald knew, and he shaked his black and white sleeve from his wrist and stared at a silver knotted watch. The second arm was moving relentlessy forward, and he counted.

_**Lee Thompkins** _

"Why didn't I see you?"  
Lee listened quietly as Edward whispered to himself.  
"Why didn't I see you?" she watched Edward adjust binoculars while he repeated, "Why didn't I see you?"  
Edward Nygma didn't seem to be either sitting so much as leaning as his long, lanky body took position behind the designated dumpster stippled out for his plan.  
Lee watched him with unrestrained fascination --- no doubt this man was in his element. She followed Edward's gaze across the street to the firm and clearly stable brick wall, decorated with electric barbed wire surrounding the back entrance of Arkham Asylum.  
"Why didn't I see you?" Edward asked.  
"Ed," Lee tried, "I appreciate all you're doing for me, but-"  
"Thank you."  
Silence.  
Getting Oswald out of Arkham was the main priority, she knew as much, but was it worth seeing her friend eating  himself up about it? Seeing him suffer and bleed?  
"This morning," she started, "I found you passed out on concrete floor between ripped notes that made no sense."  
"So?"  
"So?!"  
Edward waved her concerns away with the flick of a wrist, "You deserve The Narrows, you will get it back, in no time. Promise."  
"Edward...."  
"Promise."  
He smirked as he glanced aside at her, "Sofia Falcone is soon to be dealt with, anyway. _Joy_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe people liked my last chapter. Thank you so much. Things are just getting started, so stay tuned.


	3. Follow The Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the script is harder when feelings ring more true.

_**Oswald Cobblepot** _

 

Oswald remembered waking up twice that morning.

The first time it happened, he had assumed he had made a mistake. Turning over to catch some futile few minutes more of sleep, his mind had taken him hostage. Balancing on the thread of being awake and asleep, a hurricane of questions had scooped him up out of the bed. A tsunami of suffocating memories and vague realisations had taunted him endlessly and as he spiralled he had no choice but to scream 'Yes' in his head and submit.

Yes. Yes. Oswald missed him too.

The second time, he sat up with a jolt. The dreadfully familliar buzz from down the hall when metal gates unlocked was followed by blinding neon-lights. The maximum security hallway in Arkham was suddenly awake with screams and sounds, and it scraped all the air out of his lungs. Guards yelled for the maggots to wake up, get up, be ready.

After the initial shock, he grinned. He became aware that all he was doing was simply staring stupidly at the ceiling. Shaking his head, he discovered the perception of heartbreak was ebbing away, leaving him feeling just slightly sick and dizzy. It had not vanished entirely, instead it had dropped deep inside of him. Deeper than he could reach.

What was new?

"Hey, bird-friend."

When did it happen, anyway? Oswald wondered.

Was it when he had said he'd to anything for him? No... No. No, that had been confirmation. Thinking with his heart he had foolishly-

"Oswald?"

Oswald was dead. There seemed little doubt about that, there was a horrific hole in his abdomen, but he simply hadn't the slightest idea what he was ment to do about it. Blood was sobbing out, marrying the cold water surrounding him. Otherwise, there was no movement from his chest at all, or, well... any other part of him.

"PENGUIN!"

" _WHAT_?" Oswald looked up from the blueprint to catch eyes with a very frustrated, wide-smiled unhinged maniac. The venomous eyes that bore into his skull had never been more disconnected with the wicked grin permanently etched onto Jerome's face. It was actually quite fascinating, and for a moment he couldn't help but stare.

Wait... Where _was_ he?

Assessing the situation, Oswald realised they were buckled behind a corner, stalking a sterile hall that consisted of cells and doors without numbers or names.

He gathered himself and read the time on the heavy watch tiring his wrist. His heart dropped.

"Thirty seconds," he whispered, "Wait... We... We did kill the camera's... Right?"

Jerome sighed heavily, "Bird's memory is on vacation," he peered around the corner, "Somebody get him a soda with some ice and a nice shade from the sun."

"I'm not-"

"Hey, no worries," Jerome blindly slapped Oswald on the shoulder, "We all get that sometimes. Voices, blackouts, acting like an _incompetent bird_... Oh, look!"

A harsh buzz echoed through the white hallway as two guards entered their death trap.

"Show time."

 

\-------------------

 

_**Edward Nygma** _

_Two Days Prior_

 

"No, please," said the man, restraining Sofia's hand from opening a letter, "There are wilder skies than these, what I own does not matter. I-I... I just run a humble honest business."

"Is that so?" Sofia flicked her wrist to open the letter. The envelope opener just missed the man's hand and the blade came to a rest besides his ear. A small whimper escaped his throath. Leaning in, Sofia whispered: "We will see, then."

"And I thought _I_ was dramatic."

Sofia's henchmen locked their guns on Edward and he quickly put his hands up.

"Oh crad."

"Hold up," Sofia restrained her cronies and observed the emerald clad man standing in her office doorway. After an uncomfortably long silence she leaned back in her chair, leather cracking under her weight. "Edward Nygma," her lips curled into an empty smile, "What an unpleasant surprise."

"Yes, this is a surprise," Edward agreed, "An uneasy one at that. I don't think this-" He nodded to the barrels of guns pointing his way, "-Is necessary."

"Down," Sofia demanded and the two henchmen took back their positions behind her. Edward cautiously lowered his hands but kept his mouth shut. The distant ambient of children playing down in the courtyard of the Falcone Home and School for Orphans was all that cut through the sour tension that followed.

"So," Sofia finally sighed, "It appears I have to up my security."

"Yes," Edward immediatly agreed, but felt the pit in his stomach growing when Sofia threw him questioning amber eyes, "I mean, no. I mean... Well," he gave up, "I have to admit it was quite easy to get face to face with you."

" _Really_?"

The pit grew larger, "Miss Falcone," Edward cleared his throath, "I'm not here to criticize you, you or your work ethics. I'm here to extend my hand, if you'll have me."

"Why should I take the hand of a has-been," Sofia mentioned and Edward ignored the cold chill running down his spine, "a braindead slave following the leader of the lowest of the low...?"

"Hah," Edward swallowed down the urge to set the record straight behind a tight lipped smile, "Exactly because."

"Hm?"

"I might be-... _Braindead_ ," he managed to utter, "But, I can be valuable. I'm an opportunist, miss Falcone. I follow winners."

Sofia rested her chin on manicured fingers, "And I am...?"

"A winner, yes," Edward allowed himself a deep breath. This might actually be going somewhere, "We both know miss Thompkins is yesterday's news, respects to you."

"Intruiging."

"I know how she operates and what she-"

"Get him out, please."

"W-Wait, no," the henchmen were already closing space towards him as he blurted out: "You don't want Oswald Cobblepot back on the streets!"

With a hiss and a flick of her wrist, Sofia stopped the clean-cut clothed men dead on their tracks. Edward glanced at both of them before he once again locked his gaze with Sofia's, swallowing deep. As she carefully took in everything that made him, him, time seemed to stop. Outside, the buzz of playing orphans dimmed and the wind ceased. Well, maybe it did, maybe it didn't, but Edward was certain that the central heating chose that moment to shut down as a growing chill whipped through the room.

"No, we don't want that," Sofia decided as she rose from her desk as if levitated with anger, "You know something."

"Of course I do," Edward stumbled over his own words, "I've been around miss Thompkins for months. I might not be a genius anymore, but I have ears."

Sofia seemed to calculate the time she had to soak up this information. Walking over to the large window siding her desk, she hugged hands behind her back and watched children yell, laugh and play down in the courtyard. "She wants to break him out of that hellhole and use him as leverage against me," she concluded silently, and it took everything in Edward's power not to cheer at her realisation.

He wiped the smile trembling on his lips away, arranged his features into an expression composed of anger, cluelessness and hopefulness just in time as she turned to face him, "And you don't like that, do you?"

"I hate him," Edward choked, and surprised himself with how practiced and raw he sounded. Even Sofia seemed surprised as he repeated: "I hate him. Miss Thompkins should know that. I want him to rot in that dreadful place, or even better yet, see his blood soaking the streets of Gotham in red. Yet, miss Thompkins doesn't care."

"Huh," Sofia looked over the playground once more, brows furrowed deep in thought, "Yes. I see. Well, mister Nygma, you should have started with that."

She nodded to the man still buckled before her desk and pointed to her bodyguards.  
"Kill him, please."

 

\-----------

 

_**Oswald Cobblepot** _

 

"Don't step in the blood," Oswald whined as Jerome bend over the guard who was still gurgling drowning death heaves through a slit throath, "We'll leave footprints."

"Oh, boo-hoo," Jerome fished a bunch of keys from the dying man's belt and searched through a wallet, "Lord forbid we let the cleaners do overtime."

"That's not the poi-"

"Aha!" he produced a grey identification card and dropped the wallet, "This is what we need, no?"

Oswald inspected the card and nodded, "Who do you want to be?"

"I get to choose?"

Oswald sighed deeply as Jerome actually took into concideration the two bloodied, dying men at their feet. One of them grabbed his ankle and he shaked his hand off in annoyance.

"That one has quite the nose," Jerome noted, "He should be you."

"We only need the uniforms you kn-"

"No, that one is a bird."

Oswald swallowed, stretched his smile as far as it reached and hissed: "Fine."

 

\----------------

 

_**Edward Nygma** _

 

"There they are."

Black and white pulled up directly across the dumpsters they were hiding behind. The GCPD logo stared at them as the police car parked behind the cruel, dehumanizing fence surrounding Arkham and Edward felt the upcoming questions boiling from Lee, questions he had so immaculately avoided. Sweet heavens, here it comes.

"You called the _GCPD?_ " she whispered. Her lungs seemed to collapse when she saw the man stepping out from the front seat, " _You called James Gordon_?"

"Lee, I swear-"

"Who's side are you on?"

"I'm on yours."

"Tell me!" she demanded, "You're talking to yourself, you've met Sofia, now this, what are you-" she nodded to Harvey Bullock and James Gordon making their way to one of the back-entrances of Arkham and touched the gun secured to her waist, "If it wasn't for them, right now, I'd-"

"Nobody ever sees the bigger picture," pinching the bridge of his nose, Edward searched it in himself to keep his cool, "Nobody realises Schrödingers cat isn't even a real experiment. It's an illustration for arguing about the idea and-"

"SO?"

"So," Edward continued, "While everybody is _arguing,_ nobody is _looking._ Nobody knows what's going on _inside_ of the box, the whole point of discussing it is self-defeating," he pointed towards the second window up from the third floor.

"I don't have my watch, but if I trust myself in three, two..." he counted, " _One_."

Metal bars got blown out. Bricks crumbled, dancing down like rain as a huge gap opened Arkham up to the outside world.

Manic laughter echoed over the stiff courtyard and Lee managed to stifle a scream.

"I'm not kidding around," Edward established, "And you better start believing I have your best interests at heart, miss Thompkins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to write more emotional-based pieces as the story develops is cool. Yet I have to restrain myself to prepare for the 'explosion' I have in mind. Thank you so much for your comments. It means so much.


	4. No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is love worth the pain?  
> The Riddler will tell you sometime soon, or maybe he won't. Who knows.

_**Oswald Cobblepot** _

  
So far so good.  
  
Besides having had to pass only one out of place guard, a guard who didn't grant them a second glance worthy now they were in uniform, hallways were very much empty.

Just as Edw-... Just as the blueprint had suggested.

Jerome and Oswald were making a point out of walking casually and slowly down the monotone hallways.  
  
Arkham was much larger than Oswald had expected. The sterile white walls might as well have been mirrors, reflecting the last hallway into the next.

Without the map tucked neatly underneath his shirt, a simple piece of paper held in place close to his heart, he would have felt like a disoriented ghost. A ghost stalking identical halls with the cacophony of wails and laughter coming from inmates blurring in the near distance. Even the heavy watch pulling on his wrist felt like somewhat of an anchor.  
  
Still, though, the ground was frail beneath his feet. He tried to walk sturdily, which in and of itself was impossible with his limp dragging him behind, and it was only a matter of time before Jerome noticed his overly ambitious attempts to appear calm.

Oswald catched a glimpse of his companion's expression, but as usual, there was nothing to take away from a mutilated smile and void eyes.  
  
"Four more corners, left into 4B83, yeah?" Jerome confirmed for the third time, and Oswald appreciated his attempt to make him focus on the goal once more, "Honestly though," Jerome continued, "You've been... Err..." he pulled his bottom lip in thought, " _Weird_ ever since you got that letter. Something about this puzzle guy that-"  
  
"His name is Edward Nygma," Oswald interrupted him, his voice way more agressive than he had intended. Dialing it down, he cleared his throath, "He calls himself _the Riddler_. That should say enough."

"See, I don't get that."

"Get what?"

'Hmph," Jerome shrugged, "Nothing."

Typical.

Attempting to have actual conversation with this guy was futile.

As they continued in silence, the words kept swelling, though.

Maybe it was this place, with the clean walls and the whiter than white neon lights...  Maybe it was the emptiness this place reflected on his very being, an emptiness begging to be filled, an emptiness that prompted Oswald to say: "I don't know."

"Hm?"

"I don't know his end-game," he admitted, "We might as well escape only to be killed. Maybe all of this is a way to torture me more."

"Sounds like a swell guy."

Oswald couldn't help but chuckle and hated himself for it directly afterwards. He swallowed the tremble out of his voice.

"He is," he confirmed, "He really is."

  
   
  
_**James Gordon**_  
  
   
  
Metallic, distorted and broken syllables made up the call to voicemail, "... So if you'd like to leave a message, I will get back to you as soon as possible. Maybe."  
  
_Beep_  
  
"Shit, I mean, hold on... Damn."  
  
_Click_  
  
"That didn't seem very helpful," Harvery Bullock mentioned. Pushing the phone back into its cradle, James Gordon granted him a sour smile, "No, Harvey," he said, "No, it wasn't," he slammed the police car into reverse once more to have another look at the sign-post by the road junction they had sped past in the hallowing mist.  
  
James had fled the one-way driving system ages ago, which involved going round and round it faster and faster until he had achieved a supernatural velocity of meaninglessness, and by God had he wanted to trash this car with the two of them inside of it. Luckily, a sudden spur of brilliance had opened up a tangent which had led the cops in the direction of deserted, pothole filled streets lined with empty warehouses.  
  
"Don't worry, partner," Harvey chewed, mouth full of shoarma as he was finishing up his lunch, "I bet this guy is just one of 'em bored punks wanting to waste GCPD time and this is the actual end of the road. Let's just go back to the station."  
  
Gordon arrived back at the junction, quit the engines and turned to his partner, "Harvey, this guy isn't a punk," he said, "He's done this before. This is obviously a very well thought-out scheme, a punk couldn't have put all those-" he sighed deeply, "- _extremely infuriating_ puzzles together."  
  
"Well, he's a smart one, then."  
  
"He forced us to decipher binary code to figure out another puzzle," James reminded him, "Let us drive all around the city just find this phone-number, a number with an altered voicemail and no way to trace it."  
  
"He's bored, I told you!" Harvey finished his sandwich and sucked sauce from his thumbs, "We completed the last puzzle to lead us here, in the middle of nowhere, figured out the number... Why not just pick up the damn phone now, then?"  
  
"To taunt us?"  
  
"With all due respect, Jim, with your imagination, I sometimes wonder if it's you that's bored."  
  
James flashed him sardonic eyes and Harvey pulled up his hands in defeat, "Fine, whatever," he said, "Let's continue this treasure hunt from hell and entertain the guy some more, even though right now we really don't know what we're looking for."  
  
After a lingering pause, filled by sharp mutterings coming from Bullock, he turned back to look at Gordon to find him looking at him dumbfounded.  
  
"... What?"  
  
"That's the point," James whispered, "We don't know what we're looking for, but by now we should."  
  
Harvey wondered for a second if his partner was having some weird kind of stroke, "No kidding, genius?!"  
  
"It's The Riddler," James said, his voice clear as rain as if there was no other explanation possible.  
  
Bullock snorted, "Don't you think I haven't thought of that before, either?" he sighed, "The frustration I've felt today, only that snot could make me not enjoy my lunch," he scratched his beard absently, "But his brain is a puddle of lukewarm ice, remember? Please tell me you remember."  
  
"Maybe it isn't, anymore," James Gordon unbuckled and removed the keys from the ignition, "And this is his way of letting us know. With his ego, he would have expected us to know he'd return, even fear it, and this is his final puzzle. With all his games today, we should already have figured out it was him and to not underestimate him. We didn't know what we were looking for, but we should have."  
  
"Hey- HEY!" Harvey yelled as his partner threw open his cardoor, stepped out into the grey, chilly winter scene, and slammed it shut behind him, "Christ..."  
  
James was already standing in the middle of the deserted crossroad scanning around when Bullock appeared behind him, trying to see what he was searching for.

After a full minute of peering through biting mist, he whined, "James, this is-"  
  
Making a sudden turn, James pointed at a bullethole littered sign, "Redwood," he said before switching to the closest nearby sign, "Inveress," he continued the circle, not bothering calling out the street names anymore as he just mentioned the first letters of which they began, "D... D... L... E... R."  
  
"... Oh."  
  
"Every sign on this crossroad spells out his name."  
  
"That's..." Harvey started uneasily, trying to find the right words, "Weirdly coincidential?"  
  
"No," James said, "Some of these are brand new, he changed them deliberatly," he motioned to three out of place, clean signs, "See how those don't have any dirt or bullet holes?"  
  
"You're saying he-"  
  
"Ah!"  
  
"Jim, I swear-" James ignored the tired beginnings of a rant as he sped over to the last replaced sign, set on getting closer to confirm what he thought he had seen. And surely, this one didn't make any sense. The usual, white arrow that guided into the direction of a correspondent street, was pointing down to the ground. He kneeled down to wipe away frosted snow at the base of the steel leg, his cold bare fingers quickly numbing.  
  
"You can't drive into the ground, you're right about that one," Bullock stated the obvious, but James was too concentrated to bother responding with a snarky remark. His thumb hit something plastic and he quickly fished it from the snow, patting the remainder of frost from the small bag he had just uncovered. In thick paint, a green question mark appeared.  
  
"Oh sweet Railroads," Harvey blurted out.  
  
James raised an eyebrow at him and his partner nodded at the road sign, "Railroads," he explained, "The name of the street... I was...  Oh, don't glare at me like that. Just, open the damn thing already."  
  
Not expecting anything resembling a congratulations for his work just now - well, for now - Gordon removed thick tape from the plastic and let the content of the bag drop into his frozen palm. A folded note and a square, wooden box revealed itself. A large button with _**'PUSH ME**_ **'** written across stared back at them.  
  
"Oh, I don't like this," Harvey mumbled while James busied himself with opening the note.  
  
" _To_ m _y two favorite cops,_ " he read out loud and Harvey threw him a bitter glance. He continued, _"I hope you solved this before two this afternoon_."  
  
"We had a time limit?!" Bullock seemed to suddenly panic. Apparently the reality of the situation was finally seeping in now he had seen the grisly memory of a green question mark.  
  
James pulled the coat sleeve from his wrist to read the time, "Oh..."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Five more minutes," he said and Harvey started pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose, hissing profanities under his breath.  
  
" _I have faith in you two though,_ " James read further, " _I'm guessing you'll find this between half an hour or just five minutes from the deadline. But it will be a sad, sad day if you don't push the button before then. Well.. mostly for you and all of Gotham, though. You'll make things for me complicated, too. But oh, at least it would be interesting._ "  
  
"Why can't he still be on ice?"  
  
" _This is a test of trust,_ " Gordon continued, sternly ignoring the panicking cop running bewildred circles besides him, _"I want us to continue this game, together. Press the button, or something horrible will happen, something you and the rest of Gotham will live the rest of your lives with. So, let's play_."  
  
In the silence that followed, a suffocating darkness started to weigh down on them. Harvey snapped the spell broken by yelling: "AND?"  
  
"And nothing," Gordon said, "That's it. That's the note," he turned it over to double-check, "Yes, nothing."  
  
"Why can't he still be on ice?" Harvey repeated, furiously kneading the back of his neck, "Maybe Penguin had a point."  
  
Rolling the square button over between hands, looking for non-existing methods to somehow quit this madness, Gordon contemplated, "Edward likes games," he swallowed deep, "Maybe we should trust him."  
  
"That thing might as well blow up the whole city," Harvey countered frantically.  
  
"I don't think that's his style, though," James countered back, "I would rather think that if we don't press, something like that would actually happen."  
  
"If we were earlier, maybe we could have brought it back to the station and-"  
  
"Harvey, we couldn't have been that much earlier, he wrote so himself. He wanted us to find this at this exact moment so-"  
  
"I just needed to buy that damn shoarma and-"  
  
"We have no time for th-"  
  
"Oh, I am well aware, but-"  
  
"We have to press it."  
  
The two cops locked eyes with no more words left to spend.  
  
A frosty wind, uncertain which street to go in or out to curled around them before settling down, leaving deafening silence.  
  
Harvey nodded and James pressed the button.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
_Nothing._  
  
And then, a faint but sure pitch broke through the quiet that had been frozen in place. Pulsating in tone, it grew higher and higher, until the both of them located the sound coming from the car.  
  
"The phone... He was waiting to call back," James breathed as he paced, before running towards the police car. Harvey yelled warnings of 'bomb' and 'danger', but james was too busy ignoring him as he was absolutely sure this was the game the Riddler had intended for them all along now.  
  
Pulling the door open, he leaped inside and reached over lunch wrappers and empty coffee cups to maul the carphone from it's cradle.  
  
"Edward?" he panted as he put it to his ear, "Hello?!"  
  
For a while, silence, but James would be lying if he didn't admit a shiver ran down his spine when Edward's distinctivally low, triumphant laughter finally answered, echoing in crackles through the phone.  
  
_"Its The Riddler, Jimbo_ ," he said, " _Get it right next time_."  
  
  
  
_**Oswald Cobblepot**_  
  
   
  
"4B83," Jerome said as they circled a corner, "Here we are!"  
  
A tall gate framed the iron works around an impossibly large empty cell, a cell stranded fairly desolated from the others deeper into the maze that made up Arkham.  
  
"W...Why the hell do they need this? Who is this big?" Oswald asked absently, "Quickly, find the key."

Jerome flipped through the keys on his belt, retrieving the largest one and giggling in anticipation.  
  
He held the shiny metal up to the the headache inducing neon-lights and he twirled it in between fingers to inspect it, "Who cares?" he said as he made his way towards the lock, "The vent gate in there is loose, your buddy said so. It's never been restored because obviously this pointless cell is never used. Perfect spot and size for a bird like you to crawl through."  
  
A heavy grinding click echoed over empty halls. Screething metal scratched over concrete ground as Jerome pulled the gate before it came to a halt.  
  
"It's your way out while I gather our little army," he said, "You pop out on the other side, jada jada jada..."

"Jada.... ja... da."  
  
Maybe Oswald had spend too much time in Arkham.

Maybe it was just paranoia.

The feeling of being skinned of who he was had been going to his head and he had grown paranoid.

Yes. Yes, that was it.

Maybe the tall metal bars that looked too much like the ribcage of a birdcage. Hahaha... Yes.

It was just metal bars that made him lose his breath for silly reasons.

He knew nothing.

But...

But he knew Edward.

He knew Edward.

"See, I still don't understand how or why this plan involves us seperating," Oswald started, "It doesn't-"

He managed to see just a glimpse of Jerome's fist before it made contact with his eye.  
  
Which one eye it made contact with first, he had no idea.

His mind was blackened in pain as he crashed against the metal bars behind him. He sucked in air, and he tried, and tried.

Oswald tried to gain back sense, yet the next punch flew his attempts out of the window as he fell to his knees.

The last thing he remembered was endless manic laughter as he was dragged into the cell behind him.

A click.

 

\-----

 

_He would kill Jerome. He would kill, he would kill-_

Before he could even sew stretches of thoughts together as he vaguelly woke, Oswald knew this one fact.

Blinkng eyes open, a poorly attached face to something that used to be human greeted him behind bars.

"Ah, there you are," Jerome said, kneeling closely to him, "Thought I had killed you there for a second," he shrugged, "Fake-fighting for an audience messes up your perspective. What can I say."

Body useless, mind useless, Oswald just managed: "You-"

"Shhhhh," Jerome hushed, producing an envelope from his inner pocket,  "It's okay little bird."

A green question mark was elegantly painted across the letter.

"Ta-daah!" Jerome exclaimed, "I got one too!"

Oswald wanted to cry.

He wanted to cry.

He whispered "Stop," trying to digest pain as he repeated: "Just... Stop."

"Gotta go, now," Jerome stood up, fixed his uniform and ran a hand through his hair, "It's been fun. If you do survive, toodles to your green friend. He's hilarious."

Jerome started walking down the hallway but turned to reiterate: "Also there is no loose broken vent escape."

Listening to the footsteps echoing away, Oswald wondered.

He looked down at the him, the ghastly astonishished looking thing he used to call himself.

These shards had been stepped on way too much to make it possible to put together anymore.

He finally cried.

Oh, well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry too much about Oswald. Penguin's thrive in deep waters.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't wait to write my own ideal story after the winter break of season 4. This is my first work I actually posted online for more than my friends to see, hope you're enjoying it so far. I have most of it planned out, but I might add more tags and characters later. I don't know when I'll update, hopefully at least once a week.  
> Anyway, I'm nervous.


End file.
